


Lose The Name of Action

by TheIntelligentHufflepuff



Series: And By Opposing End Them [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Coping Mechanisms, Depression, Developing Friendships, Domestic, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Frustration, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Recovery, Self-Hatred, reference to past suicide attempt, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 18:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIntelligentHufflepuff/pseuds/TheIntelligentHufflepuff
Summary: The jungle is deep, damp, and blissfully cool in the sweltering sun. A clear stream runs past Steve’s feet, babbling merrily; the air is filled with an understated symphony of chirrups, caws, and rustlings, scented by the perfume of exotic flowers and grounded by the distinctive aroma of wet vegetation. A moment of peace in a perfect landscape.Or it would be, if Steve wasn’t feeling so much and so little all at once.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: repeated reference to past suicide attempt, Steve has a very distorted sense of self worth, it is hinted that Steve is entering into fights with the intent of hurting himself, there's a slightly sexual scene at the end (but they don't actually do more than kiss and no genitalia are mentioned). 
> 
> Rating may be a bit high. 
> 
> This was gonna be a happy fic, but then I thought that maybe starting to adopt healthy coping mechanisms etc probably wouldn't be that easy, so it's pretty angsty, but things start looking up at the end.

The jungle is deep, damp, and blissfully cool in the sweltering sun. A clear stream runs past Steve’s feet, babbling merrily; the air is filled with an understated symphony of chirrups, caws, and rustlings, scented by the perfume of exotic flowers and grounded by the distinctive aroma of wet vegetation. A moment of peace in a perfect landscape.

Or it would be, if Steve wasn’t feeling so much and so little all at once. 

Rationally, Steve knows it shouldn’t be getting to him quite as much as it is- this ebb and flow of resignation, grief, frustration, nothing- but it’s been a month since his suicide attempt and Steve has failed comprehensively to deliver on the change his friends expect. 

They haven’t said anything, of course, and they’ve been unwavering in their support, but Steve knows. He sees the looks they trade when they think he’s turned away, on the worst days and sometimes on the better ones. The furrow of a brow, the downturn of lips, the flaring of a nostril on occasion...and that particular expression of ancient hurt and sadness that wells up in Bucky’s eyes straight from his heart. Steve hates that expression. Hates causing it, hates that he can’t seem to stop.

No matter how hard Steve tries to hide himself behind smiles and the facade of interest, Bucky always seems to know. He always has, to some extent, though Steve doesn't think Bucky fully comprehends the fact that every nudge of the shoulder or rare moment of emotional vulnerability he offered Steve in their youth did more to bring him out of his head than many of the techniques his team are attempting in the modern day. Though, as Steve ponders the issue, it occurs to him that the root may lie not in any fault of his friends’ but in the sheer magnitude of a problem that Steve strongly suspects was enlarged tenfold by the process that made him a hero and the deeds he did to earn the title. After all, Natasha and Sam particularly seem to have a sixth sense for when Steve’s about to spiral into the abyss, or neglect the needs of his body in favour of catatonia, often appearing almost literally out of the blue with a drink, some food, a few choice words or simple human contact. If this depression was at the level it was in his youth- as tiring as any illness and in bouts twice as long, but ultimately surmountable through grit and willpower- Steve is sure his friends’ ministrations would be vastly more effective than they are. As it is, even the kindest care from his friends is about as effective as trying to fell Mount Everest with a dessert spoon. 

That doesn't stop them trying though, which alone is motivation enough for Steve to make his own attempts at dislodging the shroud that makes him a shell of a person. If he succeeds in doing that, it will be a step in the direction of truly being worthy of their love. 

Steve tips his head back, eyes closed. The ceaseless rays of the sun could almost paint the illusion of inner warmth. 

A twig snaps to Steve’s right. 

He doesn't tense. 

“One of those days?” 

It's Sam’s voice, coming nearer. A smoothing cadence to balm the prickles of Steve’s thoughts and ease open the passages of his mind so secrets flow out like stuffing. 

Steve doesn't respond verbally. Instead he opens one eye and squints at Sam from the corner of it. 

Chuckling slightly, Sam settles himself down on the rock besides Steve, saying “I’ll take that as a yes. You’ve been here a while.” 

Which of course is code for ‘we were worried. We never know when you might try to off yourself again’. 

Steve hums. 

Sam extracts his phone from the pocket of his beige cargo shorts, taps out a quick message, then slides it back in place. 

“It's hot.” Sam comments. 

Then, a few seconds later “Have you drunk?” 

Steve shrugs. He can't honestly remember. 

“How long have you been here for?” 

Steve blinks, considering. He’d left their accommodations in the early hours of the morning, after laying in bed in a stupor for hours but not having slept a wink. It's now sometime after noon and, now he thinks about it, his vision is looking a little...swimmy. 

Steve's expression must betray some of his thoughts, as Sam snorts and shakes his head, joking “How the time flies when you're having sun.” 

It's a pointless pun but Steve finds his lips twitch anyway. 

He doesn't deserve friends like Sam. They don't deserve to deal with all Steve's shit. 

“I'm not gonna make you talk.” Sam says. 

Steve adds an ominous ‘now’ in his head because he knows Sam’ll cave eventually; talking’s his old faithful and when other methods fail it's what he’ll resort to. 

“But I will make you come back with me.” 

Steve nods- it's the least he can do- and off they go. 

***  
Steve buried himself in the jungle well. It took Sam a good three hours to find him even with the help of the tracker they all wore as a concession to T’Challa’s generosity, all the while sweating through a wall of heat that made the back of his subconscious itch with the ghosts of deserts and sand dunes. It isn't any better on the way back, but at least Sam’s immediate concern for Steve’s physical well being has abated. (He wants to give Steve more credit, but he’s found wanting doesn't mean he should) 

At least now they can make a straight course for civilisation, arriving at the kitchen door after just an hour of silent hiking. The door which Bucky Barnes all but flings open, while simultaneously trying his best to look as if Sam hadn't left him curled in a tense ball gnawing on a fingernail like there was no tomorrow. 

Sam may not be Barnes’ number one fan, but he has to give the man credit where credit is due; he sure does care for Steve. 

Steve blinks as Barnes grabs him, eyes flashing like lasers across Steve's face and down his arms, grip loosening a tiny bit when he sees Steve unscathed. 

“Don't do that.” Barnes says. Sam opens his mouth to interject that he can't prevent Steve from ever leaving but he closes it again when Barnes adds “Don't just disappear without leaving a note or anything.”

Steve's jaw clenches, his eyes darkening in guilt “I’m sorry.” 

Before Sam can do anything himself, Barnes cups Steve’s cheek in one hand and shakes his head “No, Steve. You don't have to apologise. It's my fault I freaked out. Okay? Just please let me know if you need time alone again.” 

Steve nods. For his own part, Sam’s relieved to see it. But he would quite like to move out of the kitchen doorway. 

“I'm getting lunch.” He announces.

Barnes nods enthusiastically and manhandles Steve into one of the stools at the kitchen island, heedless of the damp that is most likely ingrained into Steve's trousers and now seeping into the white leather cushion. Sam, who has a healthy respect for well made furniture, opts to stand leaning against the wipe-down counter next to the sink. First, he downs a pint of water. Then, he forces Steve to do the same. Meanwhile Barnes starts fiddling with bread and lettuce. Eventually they're all settled with sandwiches and fruit, Barnes and Sam both eating theirs enthusiastically while Steve munches his in time to a funeral dirge. It doesn't matter, Sam thinks privately, so long as he eats it. 

“Did you do any sketching? For that matter where did you go?” Barnes asks, tone forcibly bright 

“A rock.” Steve replies after a couple of beats too many. 

“Okay.” Barnes replies. 

It's painfully awkward. Sam rolls his eyes. He agrees with Barnes that it's probably a good idea to get Steve talking, but a depression jaunt probably isn't the best subject. 

And he does have both Steve and Barnes in the same room for the first time without some kind of immediate crisis. 

Plus a lot of curiosity,

So really it's only sensible to ask “Is this a new thing, or…?” 

“Is what?” 

Sam gestures with his fork between the two of them. Barnes narrows his eyes. Sam rolls his. 

Steve, for his part, just looks to Barnes with an expression bordering on imploring. Barnes melts, defensiveness blasted to pieces by Steve’s puppy dog eyes. Sam has to admit he's fallen victim to them himself from time to time. 

“We weren't together before, if that's what you're asking. But I’ve loved him for quite a few years.” Barnes admits. 

“Since I was about sixteen.” Steve confesses a moment later, lips twitching into a smile that is notable for two reasons: First that it's a smile, which is an expression that Steve hasn't worn for many weeks. Second that it's shy and boyish enough to remind Sam of the seven years he has on Steve. 

“Damn dude, you let that simmer for a while.”

Steve shrugs “Guess so.” 

“Were you in love with Peggy Carter too, then, or was that more of a Sharon thing?” 

Steve glances at Barnes, which in itself is answer enough. 

“More than the Sharon crush and less than the Epic Love Story of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, then?” 

Steve nods, blushing slightly. Surprisingly, Barnes doesn't look jealous, just sort of smugly satisfied. 

Interesting. Sam, purely in the capacity of a friend, is on the brink of pressing for more information when Natasha sweeps into the kitchen, wearing combat gear and an expression that promises murder. 

“What's wrong?” Sam demands, already mentally mapping the route to the Wakandan research and development labs that house a pair of prototype wings. 

Natasha shakes her head, not even glancing at Sam “Not you. Steve.” 

The transformation Natasha's words spark in the man in question is startling. Steve shucks off his previous introspection like a coat, shoving his shoulders back into an imaginary captain’s uniform, expression gaining an intent and solidity that Sam has seldom seen outside the field. 

“Lukin?” He asks. Sam looks to Barnes, but he doesn't seem to have much more of an idea than he does. 

“Lukin.” Natasha confirms grimly. 

Steve swears, throws down his apple core, and launches himself out of the chair in quick succession. It's the quickest Sam’s seen him move in weeks. 

“I'll get my gear. You got transport?” Steve asks Natasha. 

She nods and Steve turns to leave. He doesn't get far though, because Barnes has clamped his metal hand around Steve's arm. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To catch Lukin.” Natasha answers tersely, despite the fact that the question was very much directed at Steve “Quickly.” 

On hearing the name for a second time Barnes’ face spasms, five different expressions morphing into each other to eventually settle on a mask of cold ferocity. He knew what a Lukin was after all, then. 

“No.” 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” 

“I meant no, dumbnut.” 

“You can't just say ‘no’, Bucky.” 

“The hell I can!” 

“Who's Lukin?” Sam interrupts. He would quite like to know what they're arguing about before picking a side. 

“He's the last remaining head of HYDRA. Nat and I have been tracking him for a year and haven't had the opportunity to move in yet, now we do.” Steve briefs them. 

Fair enough. Only question is: “How did I never know about him?” 

“It's personal.” Natasha snaps, which means it's almost undoubtedly to do either with the Red Room, an embarrassing defeat, or both. 

“I'll go if you need me.” He offers, which is enough to settle some of Natasha's ire but still provides him with the answer: 

“No. It's a stealth operation: if we use too many people we’ll struggle to conceal the ambush, if we engage directly they'll overpower us.” 

“If the odds are that low then why are you going?” Bucky hisses. 

“Because the odds aren't that low for us.” Natasha counters “Steve and I could beat both of you in hand to hand, so we can beat a few HYDRA lackeys easily. If you don't disrupt our opportunity to do so.”

“It won't just be ‘a few lackeys’!” Bucky yells, releasing his grip on Steve to gesture explosively “It's Lukin! He’ll have half of HYDRA in his entourage, and all of their best!” 

“All the more reason to go then.” Steve practically spits. 

“No!” Bucky rounds on Steve, grabbing at him desperately the way Sam saw him do in that dingy apartment weeks ago “No, Steve!” 

Steve throws Bucky’s hands off violently, yelling “HYDRA need to go down! At any cost!”

“NOT IF WHAT IT COSTS IS YOU!” Bucky screams, scaring the ever loving fuck out of Sam in the process. Sam looks away at the tears gathering in the corners of Bucky’s eyes, but doesn't leave as he adds “You’re worth more than arresting someone we can't even detain! Please. Don't use HYDRA as an excuse to get yourself killed. Please, Stevie.” 

Curiosity gets the better of Sam; he looks back. Bucky has caught Steve's hands in his once more, and is begging him without words to comply, eyes welling with fear. Steve, for his part, looks like he's been torn in two and presented with his stuffing. Sam figures he kinda has- what Bucky apparently hit on in seconds is a hypothesis Sam’s been developing for some time, the sum of it being that at least part of Steve's willingness to throw himself into any fight he finds stems from the hope that one of them will finish him off. And if he does something useful with his suicide? Then that's just Steve all over. 

Steve licks his lips, opens his mouth to speak, flounders, then clamps his lips together again. 

“Steve?” Natasha asks, face impassive. 

“I…” he stutters “I don't know if…” 

A small smile cracks across Natasha’s lips like lightening. She shakes her head “It's not the end of the world.” 

Steve exhales, releasing a slightly unsteady “Okay” that sounds to Sam like resolution. 

Bucky grins. 

Natasha turns to Sam and says “So, about that help…?” 

**** 

Steve scratches out the drawing angrily, harsh dark smears of graphite obliterating the half completed outline of a leaf. It just won't work. He wouldn't even be trying to draw the damn thing if it weren't for Bucky and Sam, who had combined their knowledge of Steve and coping mechanisms to coerce him into keeping a sketch journal. 

He said he'd try, though. 

So he tries. 

Flipping to a fresh sheet, Steve puts pencil to paper and begins to trace a sketch from memory: the familiar outline of Bucky Barnes in all his glory, always roughly the same whether he be a teen, sergeant, assassin, or fugitive. Steve's constant through it all.

Hours later, Steve's pulled back to himself from the haze that sketching brings by the cramping of his hand. It's one in the morning, according to his alarm clock. There's a light on. 

And on his page lays a perfect rendition of Bucky's face, contorted in passion the way it will always be in Steve's memory of Austria. The way it was earlier on in the kitchen, when Bucky saw through him like glass. 

Steve grimaces. 

It's time he made an attempt at another healthy habit: sleep. 

**** 

Bucky doesn't mean to fret. In fact he spent most of the early twentieth century trying not to. That doesn't mean he's always successful, though.

On this occasion, it's the third scream that does it. 

Bucky rolls out of bed and pads quickly down the hall to Steve’s room, pausing at the door. Using his right hand to soften the noise, he knocks. There's no response, but with closer proximity Bucky can hear terrified whimpers emanating from inside. Steve screams horrifically again. 

“Fuck it.” Bucky whispers, and eases the door open. 

Steve, predictably, is prone on his bed, snared in sheets and panting. Sweat glimmers on his brow in the moonlight, pooling in his collar bone. Cautiously, Bucky inches towards him, and places a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder. 

“No!” Steve yells, jerking awake with a ragged gasp and wild eyes. 

“It's okay, it's okay, it's okay,” Bucky murmurs, trying to bring Steve back to himself “You’re safe, I've got you, it's okay.” 

After a few tense moments, Steve's eyes focus and he breathes out “Buck.” 

Bucky smiles “Hey. You're okay.” 

Steve frowns “But it's four am.” 

Having known Steve for practically his whole lifetime, Bucky's become used to his quirks, so he realises Steve hasn't developed a fear of time. 

“You were having a nightmare.” He explains “I could hear you screaming.” 

Steve blinks slowly “Oh. Sorry.” 

“For God’s sake Steve.” Bucky says, not unkindly “Stop apologising.” 

Steve doesn't meet his eyes. After a few beats where the two hang in an awkward stasis, Bucky crouched down beside the bed, Steve shuffles silently over to the other side. For a second, Bucky is offended. Then he realises that far from getting away from Bucky, Steve has moved over as an invitation and request to stay. Naturally, Bucky accepts. When he’s settled down, right side barely brushing Steve’s left, Steve begins to talk. 

“I need to say something. I feel like you’re trying too hard. To make me better.” he adds at Bucky’s questioning look “But I don’t feel like you can.” Steve smiles ruefully “The only person that can make me better is me. I’ve heard Sam say that a lot. So,” he shrugs “ I’m just saying, this isn’t Austria. There’s no fires to jump over. Or maybe it is Austria, if you like the metaphor, except this time you can escape.I would say sorry for rambling, except you told me to stop apologising so much, and I-” 

“Steve.” Bucky whispers, genuinely shocked when his brain finally catches up to what Steve’s putting into sleep-deprived words “Are you trying to break up with me?” 

“No!” Steve immediately protests, then visibly backpedals “Yes. Kinda?” 

“Explain.” Bucky demands, the word slightly too harsh as a result of the anxiety slowly seeping into his bloodstream. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair frustratedly “I don’t wanna give this up.”

Bucky nods “Good. I don’t either.” 

“But you might.” Steve insists “If you realised what you’re getting into.” Bucky makes to protest, but Steve cuts him off “Look. I’m not gonna beat about the bush here, because it’s important: none of what you and all the others are doing is working, and I don’t think it will. I’m always gonna be like this. You date me, you date my...depression, too. And you of all people don’t deserve something like that, because it’s gonna make me unpredictable and difficult, and I’m always gonna doubt that you really do...love me as you say you do.”

“Steve…” 

“No.” he shakes his head, animated “It’ll be harder than a normal relationship, and I won’t always be able to give you all the support you need because sometimes I can barely recognise myself as human, and I love you but I’ll end up hurting you somehow, I will. Buck, you deserve someone who you don’t have to pester to remember to eat, or any of that. You deserve someone who can goddamn function!” 

By the end of his tirade Steve is practically spitting, bringing down his fist to thump the mattress hard enough that it nearly bounces Bucky off. He pays it no mind, too entirely focused on how wrong Steve is. 

It kinda pisses him off. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, do you honestly believe I give two shits about how ‘hard’ it is?” he grits out, physically restraining himself from raising his voice in consideration of their housemates “Do you think I gave a shit about it that August when we were living on one paycheck and half-starving ‘cos you’d lost your job and I was barely clinging on to mine? Do you think I gave a shit about it when we were slogging our way through continental Europe, nearly dying on a daily basis?” 

“Of course you gave a shit!” Steve crosses his arms “You hated all of that!” 

“But I endured it! Willingly, because it was what I needed to do to be with you.” 

“But you shouldn’t’ve had to!” Steve reiterates, uncrossing his arms to gesture angrily “Especially not for damaged goods!” 

Bucky surges upwards, shoving Steve over to straddle him with a growl “You call yourself ‘damaged goods’ one more time, I swear to God I’ll make you regret it.” Steve gulps, very still under Bucky’s grip- a grip Steve could break, but one strong enough to make Bucky’s point “You are Steve. Steve is you. Understand?” Bucky waits until Steve gives a slightly hesitant nod to continue “I love you. You, as you are, right now.” another nod “I loved you before the serum, too. And I stuck around through every single one of the times your body failed you.” Bucky braces his arm- gently, very gently- across Steve’s throat and trails his other hand down Steve’s body, caressing each location as he lists them: “Your heart, your lungs, your back…” By the time Bucky reaches the appendix, Steve is arching into the touch, pupils widening. Bucky himself feels like his skin has been set alight, but he has a job to do here “You never questioned why I helped you get the care you needed, so why should it be different now that your mind is sicker than it used to be?”

Bucky leans back “Not to mention the fact that it's only been four weeks. Rome wasn't built in a day, Stevie. These things take time, but the techniques we’re trying will work eventually.” He punches Steve lightly in the shoulder “You can't always have all your problems solved by miracles.” 

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, for a second seeming almost exactly like the nine year old Bucky met a hundred years ago “That it'll work out?” 

Bucky ducks down, capturing Steve’s lips in his, pulling away with a nip that has Steve chasing him for more “Positive. I'm with you.” Bucky vows. 

“Then I'll be with you, too.” Steve affirms. 

“Well I'm glad you got all that sorted out.” 

Bucky jumps. Sam is stood in the doorway, smirking. His hair is mussed and he’s still wearing tac gear.

“You just got in?” Steve asks, craning his neck to look at Sam around Bucky. He climbs off him, settling back onto the bed. 

“Yep.” Sam confirms, popping the ‘p’ “Just in time for some Argentinian soap opera grade entertainment.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes “Shoo.” 

Sam does, but not without calling “Use protection!” 

Steve groans, head thunking against the headboard dramatically. Bucky snorts, and settles down under the covers. 

“It's okay.” He teases “I found some star spangled condoms in his drawer.” 

Steve slaps him with a pillow, then promptly falls asleep.


End file.
